User Reviews

The story of the legendary Bobby Jones is an interesting one. I was unaware of some of the facts about his life, such as his frailty as a child. This film takes us from his childhood (approximately age 6) through his precious few years of competitive golf. He never turned professional, despite considerable pressure from many people to do so. This was a fact that I had forgotten. He truly played for the love of the game. The film, while about a golf legend and golf in general, would also appeal to non-golfers. Bobby Jones hated being in the spotlight, yet triumphed while he was in it. The film stars few big names, yet the acting is quite good. It is a well-written, factual (mostly) story and should appeal to nearly anyone. Bobby Jones asked for his wife's support to accomplish a goal (winning the Grand Slam of golf) and promised to retire when he did it. And that is exactly what he did.

So, why did this film flop...so badly. Simple. To enjoy this film you pretty much have to have a true interest in golf, and perhaps even more so, and interest in the history of golf. That brings things down to a pretty small audience.

That being said, this is a very good film. I do have to admit that I preferred the depiction of Bobby Jones and Walter Hagen in "The Legend Of Bagger Vance", but the depictions here are probably more accurate. The film also suffers from being a bit too long...123 minutes...it could have been edited more tightly. And, I wish it had spent a little time telling about Jones' illness later in life.

The performances here are, in my view, solid. Jim Caviezel was excellent as Bobby Jones, although I did prefer the depiction by Joel Gretsch in "Bagger Vance". Claire Forlani is good as Jone's wife. Jeremy Northam was good as Walter Hagen, although again, I preferred the depiction by Bruce McGill in "Bagger Vance". I never cared for Malcolm McDowell in his younger years, but as he has matured I've come to appreciate his performances, and he's enjoyable here. I almost didn't recognize Aidan Quinn as a British golfer...watch for him...it's a rather small part. Brett Rice was very good as Bobby's father, and Connie Ray good as his mother. Dan Albright was interesting as the grandfather. I also enjoyed Paul Freeman as the Scottish caddy.

If you're a golfer, I recommend this film. If you're not a golfer, you may find it boring. But it is a nicely executed film.

If golf is a good walk spoiled, this movie was $14 and two hours wasted. The script leaves too many unanswered questions for those who know nothing about Robert Tyre Jones, Jr., which hurts understanding the storyline. Rather, it assumes we all are familiar with the history of golf and how it relates to Jones and his accomplishments. Why were early professional golfers like Walter Hagen considered second-class to amateurs in the era? What were the four major championships in Jones' time, and why? Did Jones only play major championships? While the talent difference between professionals and amateurs is clear today, the semantics of the word "amateur" today connote a lesser-skilled person than a pro, and the movie does nothing more than confuse people on that important element. The movie was financed by and produced by the Jones Film Foundation LLC (it was). So what you really get here is the story of Bobby Jones the way the Jones family wants it told. Which explain the total lack of balance. Director Rowdy Herrington, who co-wrote the screenplay with two others, produced a script that is as sophomoric and lame and laborious as it is predictable, even for those who don't know the history of the man who was arguably the greatest golfer of all time. The movie is a nice period piece, despite a few historical inaccuracies and mistakes – like the store-window reflections of modern SUVs in a scene where the future Mrs. Jones rides a trolley around 1920. The steam passenger trains purported to be transporting Jones around the Deep South have British-style locomotives and passenger coaches. The golf courses supposed to be Oakmont and Merion are of the wrong architectural style. The greens are cut much shorter and roll quicker than the technology of the day allowed as they didn't "stripe" tees and fairways in those days. And so on. The golf scenes are too few and too stiff and too disjointed, to the point where we don't see any meaningful, tide-turning, dramatic shots – save for the winning putts haphazardly spliced in. Just a bunch of miracle shots in between a soap opera-like storyline. Some of Bobby Jones' (Jim Caviezal) tee shots look like the ball flight was added with a computer. The dialog and character development are both poor and amateurish, with contrived pathos and stock drama. The movie's conversations were cornier than the outfield in Field of Dreams. There were far too many instances of ad-lib clairvoyance and/or disbelief. For example, before Jones attempts a flop shot that needed to clear the high top of a tree to reach the green, we get a closeup of a spectator whispering, "He'll never make that shot." And of course, he does. Maybe that's how they tried to convey that it was a difficult shot to the non-golfers in the audience, but those who play or watch the game are offended with that kind of obvious simplicity. There's another scene, set in a clubhouse bar, where Jones is goaded by a burly professional who can't believe he wants to stay an amateur – playing solely for the competition and not the money. After a disgusted Jones finally walks away, upset with the overacted tirade, omnipresent biographer O.B. Keeler (Malcolm McDowell) whirls and punches the obnoxious guy in the mug, then turns and offers the clairvoyant opinion: "Someday, money will ruin sports." The script comes off more like a patchwork quilt of unsubtle, insipid scenes that don't really mesh well or add up to a whole. It's as if they made a list of significant incidents in the life of Bobby Jones and then rushed to find a way to string them together. I'd be surprised to hear that the screenplay writers spent more than a weekend working on it. If it took any longer, they should be ashamed. If you like contrived, you'll love the scene where young Bobby pulls off yet another miracle shot and a shocked spectator punches his hand through the lid of his straw skimmer. The action is so forced, so movie-formula, it is funny, but for all the wrong reasons. And the arduous, recurring, cliché-ridden theme of stern, practical, preachy grandfather disapproving of Bobby's "silly" pursuit of playing golf instead of aspiring to a more productive pastime – against his son's (Bobby's father) wishes – is finally resolved in group hug at the end that was so expected, so trite, so cornball, it caused me to laugh uncontrollably at what other theatergoers deemed a very inappropriate time. Sorry, I couldn't help myself. Caviezal, who like most of the other actors, gives a cardboard performance, looks pained and anguished throughout the movie and blandly recites the faulty dialog. He doesn't look a bit physically like Bobby Jones. Nor does he swing like a golfer. Jeremy Northam, as Walter Hagen, is actually believable, although I thought Bruce McGill (The Legend of Bagger Vance, which was as awful as Caddyshack II) looked like and played the Hague much better. Oh yeah, the writers took some liberties with the facts – like the scene where Hagen chides Jones in the locker room prior to the 1930 British Open. Too bad Hagen didn't even make the cross-Atlantic trip in 1930. There's too much foul language and club-throwing after bad shots, and the cloying scene where a reformed Jones calls a penalty on himself despite claims from witnesses that his ball did not move at address is so goody-goody, it's sickening. It's hard for the audience to become compassionate with the stiffly-played Jones character here – although he is accurately portrayed as a member of "privileged" society, where whites play the game of golf and are waited on at every turn by blacks. The ignored wife, the supportive-yet-concerned parents, the sermonizing grandfather, a serious "attack" of varicose veins... aaargh! It's a shame. This movie had so much potential, but bogged down by a silly script, it never got off the first tee.

There is a scene in which Bobby Jones, approaching the apotheosis of skill in the world of golfdom, just short of the world's championship, is practicing putting. The ball rolls to the edge of the cup and sticks there. Jones stares down at it, puzzled, and taps it with his club. Nothing. He begins to whack away at it. Nothing -- the ball is immovable. I kept waiting for him to wake up from a nightmare and thrust his face into the camera. He wakes up and thrusts his face into the camera.

It's 1920 and Jones, a college boy, is celebrating the last day before Prohibition takes effect. It's a rowdy, half-drunk bunch, and Jones has brought his shy new girl friend along. A chirpy blond announces to the others that "they're calling this the Jazz Age." That's just to make sure you know that this was called the Jazz Age, in case you missed the band playing jazz behind them.

If this had been shot in the 1950s it would have starred Jimmy Stewart as the self-doubting genius, overcoming his inner demons, and achieving glory before an untimely death. And instead of Clare Forlani, the girl who becomes the loving wife would have been June Allyson.

A couple of stereotypes are missing. There is no scurrilous villain who hates Bobby Jones for one reason or another. No enemy haunts him on his rounds. Instead, the villainy, such as it is, is spread a little thinly over a grandfather who demands Jones become a master of commerce. Grand Dad reforms and finally admits that golf is Bobby's proper calling, not business. Jones is not in search of some secret "swing" or technique. He's a wizard from boyhood on. But the inevitable Mammy figure, Clarissa, is present. This is upper-middle-class Georgia we're talking about. And there is the exhausted cliché of the loving wife who wants him to stay home, settle down, and continue his law practice. "You're married to a golf ball." Well, she doesn't say exactly that but you get the picture.

As Jones, I wish Jim Caviezel had a clearer grasp of his role. Maybe it's the script that undoes him but he projects weakness. There are plenty of scenes showing his suffering, sweating, trembling, face twisted with pain, but there is no coherent explanation for them. It's as if the writers had decided that the movie needed more suffering and thrust them rudely into the narrative.

Claire Forlani is okay with me. She's shackled by her role too, but who cares? She has sharp, sensual features and plump, asymmetrical lips. Yum. There are one or two winners in the supporting cast but more duds. The award for best performance (or, at any rate, most colorful role) goes to -- envelope, please -- Jeremy Northam (Applause!) as the cocky, confident, intense, but good-natured competitor, Walter Hagen, who shows up for one match in a tuxedo, still drunk from the night before.

Golfers and Scotsmen should love this.